Revisiting
by idnar
Summary: Short story of Itachi revisiting the village.


Not a bird chirps, not an animal scurries for cover as the figure approaches. The area is completely abandoned. The only sound to be heard are the light crumble of loose gravel from the sidewalk pavement meeting the bottom of his shoes and the slight tinkle his hat makes as he walks quietly down the path.

He reaches his destination. Faded yellow caution tape lays tattered and forgotten on the ground. He is stopped in front of the house he once called home, the abandoned and eerie silence is the only thing that welcomes him now. For a moment, the memories come back. He can visualize his mother and aunt sitting on the front porch swing, exchanging the daily village gossip. He blinks to remove the image from his mind.

He slowly climbs the steps that lead to the front door. The door is unlocked, but doesn't open easily from years of neglect. The family never had any need to lock doors or windows; they had always felt safe here. With a shove, he is able to get the door ajar and slides through. He half expects his younger brother to tear down the stairs to greet him and persistently beg for training lessons. From where he stands, he can see the kitchen. The vase of flowers picked for his mother is on the dinner table, the petals fallen and withered. Dinnerware set out for four lays forgotten on the table.

The floorboards creak under the weight of his body as he moves through the kitchen to the den, the room that was once a safe haven. The room that haunts his dreams: the room in which he last saw his parents. He walks slowly towards the entrance to the room, his walk becoming slower and slower. He hesitates at the door. Bracing himself, he goes in.

His eyes go immediately to the spot where it happened. The large pool of blood has long dried, now only a stain can be seen clearly through the layer of dust that has accumulated over the years of neglect. He stares at the stain for what seems like an eternity, the memories flooding back to that unthinkable act. His hands begin to shake as he inches closer.

Then the first choked sob escapes him. His knees buckle and he hits the floor, very much like his younger brother did in this very spot some years ago. He allows himself to break. Just this once. The sobs become uncontrollable. All of his self-forbidden emotions quickly rush to the surface and burst through him as howls and sobs. He throws his hat off and shoves his head into his hands.

The memory of the night his life was completely shattered by what he was forced to do infests him with guilt and sorrow. No matter how hard he tries to forget, the memory is there. Perfectly clear. As if it had happened only the previous night. Every painful memory that drowns him nightly floods him once more in this room; the last, quick sob of his mother as the blade fell down upon she and her husband and later, the broken face of his younger brother, petrified and distraught by what he finds upon entering the family room that night.

He grabs at his hair with each hand and leans even over further, his forehead brushing the floor. Between sobs he gasps "mother" and "father" and continually howls "I am so sorry." Sorry for what he had done to his mother. To his father. To his entire clan and village. But mostly he is sorry for what he has done to his younger brother. Tears stream his face. In silence he weeps.

By coming here to this once warm and pleasant place that now haunts him not only in night terrors, but in waking hours as well, he had hoped to feel _something_. What that something was, he was not quite sure. He only knew that he could not continue as he had been, the heartache would kill him. He needed a sign. Maybe some sign that he had been forgiven for his wicked deeds. To feel the burden he had carried finally lifted from his heavy heart, if only slightly. To begin with the pain and to be able to move forward. He knew the pain would never disappear completely. But still, he had hoped by coming here he could find some form of closure.

As the crying subsides, he stares straight ahead as if he can see through the wall at end of the room. He stares until his eyes lose focus and the wall is fuzzy and the pictures hanging from it are blurs. He takes a deep breath, regains his focus and looks around the room. He grabs his hat and struggles to his feet and leaves the house way he came.

The pain still lingers, fresh and agonizing as ever.

(This is my first go at writing anything other than essays for school. Constructive criticism only, please and thanks.)


End file.
